Of course I did, Rod—that is standard operating procedure. Do you wish to review it?
"Yes, it's recorded," Rod informed the monks. "Anyone want to see it again?"
"Aye." There was a sudden grim intensity about Father Thelonius. "An we can, I must study that sight, Lord Warlock."
"And its sounds," Brother Dorian added, scowling.
They closed their eyes, concentrating on the link with Rod's mind.
He saw it again, the flight over the plain, the crowd in the amphitheater, the torches…
"There is a cross inverted betwixt the flames," Father Thelonius said.
The children looked up, shocked.
In the image, the sorceress before the altar suddenly threw off her robe and danced naked.
She didn't have the body for it.
Then the flames came, and instantly, the scene disappeared.
"The sound is wrong." Brother Dorian's eyebrows drew down. "Canst review it backwards?"
"Backwards?" Rod asked in surprise. "Well, I guess…"
Surely, Fess said, and the picture disappeared. Then, a moment later, came the sound of the chanting—and Rod broke out of the playback, looking up, startled. "Latin!"
"Aye." Brother Dorian had turned grim. "Latin, chanted backwards."
"Inversion, reversion, perversion…" Father Thelonius' face twisted with disgust. "They seek to enact the Black Sabbath."
"Trying to worship the devil?"
Gwen was horrified, and the younger children, shaken by the thought, crowded closer to her almost without realizing it. Magnus stepped a little nearer to Rod.
"That is what they attempt," Father Thelonius said. "All they achieve is the sacrificing of what little power of psi they have to the hag."
"But what can have led them to this?" Cordelia protested.
Father Thelonius' eyes met Rod's and Gwen's.
Magnus saw the look, and knew its meaning. "Thou canst not mean 'twas the music!"
Father Thelonius nodded heavily. "I do so mean. This woman before the altar—'tis she who hath beguiled the crafter into twisting the music of his rocks, who hath gathered and dispersed them, to win herself followers and gain some measure of worldly power."
"And she gains it," Rod asked, "by combining the minimal talents of ordinary people?"
"Aye, and- strengthens them by the basest of their emotions—which, though less powerful than love or compassion, are more easily evoked."
"And that tower of wind behind her," said Gwen, "is the repository of their powers."
"Gathered and compressed, aye, and churning the air into a maelstrom."
"But what can hold it bound?" Gregory asked.
"She doth hold the churning winds within the envelope of her own mind's force—for she, at least, is an esper of genuine power."
"A psi-made tornado," Rod breathed, "held in a cell of pure force—a cysted twister."
But Gwen shook her head. "It cannot be her mind unaided. If she were so powerful a witch, I'd ha' heard of her ere now."
"There could be aids," Rod said slowly, thinking of high-tech devices.
"But what hath led her to so foul an end?" Cordelia exclaimed.
Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture."
"So can I," Magnus said darkly. "This much we know— that she is the ugliest witch in the land."
Cordelia glared at him, incensed, but before she could argue, Rod asked, "Now that she has managed to gather some power, what does she intend to do with it?"
"To gather more, of course. That is ever the way of power," Brother Dorian said, and Father Thelonius nodded.
Rod caught at Fess's saddle for support, staggered by a sudden vision of witch-moss rocks imbued with hate, greed, and lust, flying out from this plain of delusion, sped onward with all the power of the chained minds of the mob, gaining more and more converts to the worst of human nature—and the worst of the new fanatics finding their way back here, to contribute their own hatred and self-contempt to the swelling power of the emotional sink. "It could be the end of all that's good in Gramarye," he whispered.
He was aware of a strong hand on his arm and opened his eyes to see his wife's face, taut with concern. He forced a weak smile, managed to stand away from Fess, and turned to the monks.
Father Thelonius met him with a steady, grave gaze, nodding slowly. "Therefore can we not allow this obscenity to continue."
"But how can we stop it?"
"We have powers of our own." Father Thelonius touched the amulet. "Yet even without this jewel, there is great virtue in the yearning for right. We shall focus that—the aching for goodness and order, for love and compassion, gentleness and understanding, that is locked away in the hearts of us all. We shall focus and condense it, and pit it against that hideous chaos."
"Well said." Rod frowned. "Now, how about the engineering?"
Brother Dorian smiled and drew a long leather case out of his robe.
The children stepped forward, curiosity swelling.
Brother Dorian untied the case, and drew out…
An artifact of advanced technology.
Rod's eyes widened. "You made that?"
Brother Dorian shook his head, and Father Thelonius said softly, "We do remember the arts that the rest of humankind do own, mind—yet in this case, 'twas sent us from Terra."
It was a keyboard, with a full set of built-in visual synthesizers and subsonic modulators.
"You really know how to use that?" Rod asked skeptically, but Brother Dorian answered with a very serene smile. He extended the legs of the keyboard and set it up for playing.
"What is it?" Magnus asked.
"Listen," Brother Dorian said, "and watch."
His fingers moved over the keys, and a lilting melody arose. It wasn't nearly as loud as the rock music around them, but somehow it compelled attention, making the snarling and whining seem to recede into the background.
The children were transfixed.
A mist of glowing mauve formed in the air above Brother Dorian. Then, moving in synchronization with the music, it thickened, swirling, and churned itself into the form of a drooping flower bud. As the music built, the flower quickened, blooming and opening, lifting its face to the sun. It faded as the music swept down to a hush—and now, where the melody had been, a series of squeaks and chirps began. The children knelt hushed, recognizing the sounds of small woodland animals and birds—but what were they doing here on a plain?
Then they appeared, off to the side of the keyboard— foxes, badgers, mice, pheasants, hedgehogs—gathered in a semicircle, staring spellbound.
"What do they see?" Gwen whispered.
It was almost as though the music shaped itself to answer, swirling and settling into physical form—the figure of a small man with blue skin, clad only in a fur loincloth, a wreath of flowers in his hair and a flute at his lips. They could hear his piping, clear and flowing, and as he played, a small dancing shape appeared between him and the small furry creatures, a tiny elfin being, whose pirouettes whirled it so fast that it became a spot of light.
Then it dimmed as the music faded—and the small man and his creatures faded with it, disappearing, gone. The music took on a bittersweet, nostalgic quality, that both regretted and promised renewal—and ended.
The children were silent for a few breaths, and it seemed that even the music-rocks held their peace.
Then Rod realized the twanging and bonging was still going on around them, and the children released their breaths in a concerted sigh. "Wondrous!" Cordelia said, and Geoffrey added, "Thou art a magician!"
"Aye, certes," said Magnus, his eyes on the monk, "for thou art of the cloister of St. Vidicon, not of a parish. Thou art a wizard, art thou not?"